


Se Besaron

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Arguing, F/M, FLUFF HERE, Fluff, Fluff everywhere, Gen, Kisses, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Short, fluff there, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 08:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: Oneshots written for the Fictional Kiss, Domesticity, and Dialogue Prompts on Tumblr.Oneshot #9: Ceci helps Héctor make a rose out of fabric for Imelda.....well, more likefortyroses, actually.





	1. Imector Fictional Kiss, Prompts 3 & 12

**Author's Note:**

> From the Fictional Kiss Prompts. Anonymous requested:  
> 3\. kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s and  
> 12\. a hoarse whisper “kiss me”
> 
> Takes place after the events of the movie. 
> 
> Title translates to "they kissed" (correct me if I'm wrong) because that's basically what they're doing? I am awful with titles.
> 
> If I've made any mistakes of any kind, please let me know!

It was ridiculous, she thought, to be so strongly affected by a dream. But it had been the worst kind, the kind that felt so real, she’d woken up believing it to be reality.

In her dream, Héctor had suffered the Final Death. The white of his bones had dissolved into specks of orange, the very real weight of his body reduced to nothing in her arms.

She’d woken up clutching her hands to her chest, gasping, tears hot on her cheek bones. She’d turned to find the spot where Héctor had fallen asleep only hours earlier empty, and the nightmare had only felt more real.

As if the past three years had been the dream, and he had really died in her arms, and they hadn’t been together like the husband and wife they once had been.

As if he had been taken from her again to be hidden away until they found each other after so many years in some other realm, in some other lifetime, after ages spent alone.

She’d stared at the empty spot, aghast, and furious.

Imelda Rivera had been widowed once before, and she was going to fight whoever was trying to widow her again.

In the back of her mind she knew it was ridiculous to enact vengeance against something completely out of her control, but the horror of the nightmare was still fresh, and she’d needed to take action against something.

The hot tears slipping from her eyes were useless as she sat up in bed like a spring and got to her feet.

“Héctor!” She gasped, an unwanted tremble in her voice. “Héctor, where–”

“Imelda?” Came a worried response, and Héctor peeked around the curtains covering the open doorway to the balcony, where he had been standing watching the sunrise.

The relief was immediate, but with the relief came tears, and Imelda left her bed to pull her husband into a hug, burying her face in the cool fabric of his shirt. 

“Imelda–”

“You’re here,” she said around a rogue sob, and was immediately frustrated with herself. She’d intended to explain herself, but words spilled from her mouth without her permission. “You’re still here. Oh, Héctor, it didn’t take you. You’re still with me.”

“Sí,” Héctor said, a pained understanding coloring his voice. “I’m here, mi vida. I–I won’t leave you again, I promise–”

“No,” Imelda shook her head. He had misunderstood her. “No, amor, it was a dream. A terrible dream. I saw you fading, like–like dust in my arms. But it was just a dream. A _horrible_ dream.” She chuckled and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Ay, I’m just being ridiculous, crying like a child–”

“No, no, Imelda,” Héctor said, and Imelda swore she could hear a tremble in his voice. Her dream had shaken them both. He ran a soothing hand down her loose hair and held her close. “You’re not being ridiculous. Dreams–dreams have very real effects on us. And the bad ones can do very real hurt. It’s ok to cry, Imelda. I’m here.”

She wondered if he knew his comforting presence and words only made her cry more. Sniffling and fighting another sob, she clung to him and let the tears fall.

Ridiculous, she thought. It was only a dream. She was a great-great grandmother. She was past crying over nightmares.

And years ago, she’d hated herself for crying over him. Every tear and gasping sob had been resented, and had felt like sour betrayal against herself. But now that he was with her again and the anger and hurt was behind them, the tears no longer brought fury. They brought relief.

It was ridiculous, but she didn’t care. She needed the tears.

Once she could open her mouth without fear of sobbing uncontrollably, she leaned back and looked up into Héctor’s worried gaze. In her dream, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open, hadn’t been able to move. Now, as he looked down at her, she could see the brown of his eyes in the hazy light as the sun rose through the mist laying over the Land of the Dead.

“Kiss me,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper in the dark of the room, and reached one hand up to cup his cheek. “Héctor, please–”

Hector’s hands dropped to her waist, and he leaned forward until they were pressed as close as possible, pulling a whimper from her exhausted frame as he kissed along her cheekbone, down until he reached the faux red of her lips.

His kiss was gentle, but Imelda deepened it, as if the deepest kiss would wash away the slivers of horror still pressing against her mind. She clung tight to him, pulling, until he was pressing forward, curving into her. She curled an arm around his shoulders and held tight.

When he moved back to nuzzle her and whisper soft reassurances, Imelda ran her fingers through his hair. She was breathless again, but she wasn’t sobbing, and the horror in her mind was all but gone. But she still held onto him until the sun finally rose, the solid weight of his body reassuring against her, knowing that at least for now, and possibly for a long time, he would not be taken from her again.


	2. Imector Fictional Kiss, Prompts 2 & 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another fictional kiss prompt, this time:
> 
> 2\. moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed
> 
> 19\. kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing
> 
> Takes place after the events of the movie.

Imelda had never had reason to hate the door to her bedroom. It was a door. What was there to hate? Basic height, basic width, painted pale magenta with a simple copper handle. Sometimes it creaked almost apologetically when she opened it.

There was no reason to hate it. How could anyone hate a door?

Unless, of course, it was the only thing standing between her and her husband and their bed, and the pinche thing would not open.

With her back against the door, and her husband against her front, Imelda had tried to open it blindly with one hand behind her. But after almost a minute scrambling her fingers against the painted wood and not finding the usually readily available handle, she cursed against Héctor’s mouth and pulled away from his kiss.

“The door–” she gasped, breathless, and turned to find the handle. Even in the dark of the hallway, she knew where it was, but Héctor’s mouth peppering kisses along her cheekbone was distracting.

“I’ll get it–” Héctor said, also breathless, and regrettably lifted one hand from her waist to find the handle while still trying to catch her mouth in another kiss. “Imelda–”

Both their hands found the handle together, and with a _click_ the door swung open and both Riveras stumbled into their dark bedroom with matching yelps.

Tripping over his own long legs, Héctor almost went to his knees and Imelda was only saved from falling by the door she was still backed up against. She gripped his vest and jerked him back up, until his flailing arms went around her waist and he was kissing her again.

Only minutes ago, Imelda had been alone in the kitchen, reading a handwritten customer complaint that had been delivered to their door that morning. Complaints against the Rivera shoes were rare, and when they did receive them, Imelda usually accepted them with good grace.

But the ridiculous thing had been so, so _ridiculous_ that she’d gritted her teeth as she wrote a reply. The customer had claimed they would arrive the next week to discuss compensation for their worn shoes that they’d used for eight months, and Imelda was going to be ready to defend her family and their craftsmanship.

But as she scribbled furiously on the paper, Héctor had dumped himself into a nearby chair with two mugs of herbal tea, and watched her.

He’d set one mug down by her wrist and she’d said without looking at him, “Not now, Héctor, por favor. I’m busy.”

“I’m only bringing my wife some tea,” Héctor had said lightly. “I won’t distract you. I will busy myself with… the crossword.”

His sweet words and offer of tea had calmed her a smidgeon until she remembered some of the words the customer had used, and she’d gone back to writing her professional non-apology with flourishly letters that only betrayed her fury with each bolded, heavy handed period.

After setting her pen down, she’d raised the letter with one hand to read it closely, resting her free hand in a clenched fist next to her mug.

Half way down the letter, she’d felt Héctor take her hand in his and lift it to his mouth.

She’d looked at him over the edge of the letter. “Héctor. What are you doing.”

Pressing a kiss to one curled finger, Héctor had said, “I lied.”

He’d uncured her clenched fist and kissed the small bones of her wrist, his eyes catching her gaze. “I do want to distract you.”

Still filled with rage as he kissed down her forearm, Imelda had meant to banish him to the living room to let her finish her letter, which she wanted to send off before the end of the day.

She didn’t know how or why she’d ended up in his lap, kissing him so hard he had been pressed almost over the edge of the backrest, but there she had been, and they’d made their way up the stairs, stumbling and clutching and gasping, until they ended up in their bedroom.

Now, still back against the open door, Imelda had to grip his mussed hair and tug hard to get him to lean back to keep the wig from slipping off. He blinked at her, breathing hard.

“Close the door,” she said, releasing his hair and stepping around him. “And lock it.”

“Si, si,” he said quickly.

He shut the door, and hands scrambling on the handle, locked it with a _click._

He ran a hand through his hair and turned, grinning, and gasped when Imelda was once again on him, gripping his vest and pulling him after her.

As he began to steal her breath, Imelda stepped around until she was walking forward and he was stumbling back until he bumped against the bed. With a grunt he fell back, and Imelda fell on top of him.

With her hands pressing down on Héctor’s shoulders for balance, Imelda began to laugh. The laughter was unexpected, and she didn’t know why she was laughing, but she continued to do so until Héctor chuckled along with her.

“Isn’t this better than writing your letter?” He said, running his fingers softly along her collar bone.

“Letter?” Imelda frowned, some residual laughter still bubbling in her chest, and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that. I don’t want to think about that right now.”

Héctor grinned triumphantly. “Ah, you know I don’t like to brag, amor, but I think accomplished my mission pretty well, no?”

Imelda smiled, and leaned down to press a softer kiss to his mouth. “Si, you did well, Héctor.”

Héctor leaned up for another kiss. “I didn’t have to try that hard. Did you see the way you _pounced–-_ ”

“Cállate,” Imelda ordered, and swallowed his snickers with a kiss as the sunlight from the window dimmed around them.


	3. Julico Fictional Kiss, Prompts 7 &10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collection of oneshots written for the Fictional Kiss Prompts meme over on Tumblr. This one is for Julio and Coco, pre-movie, and Anonymous requested:
> 
> 7\. routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing
> 
> 10\. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in
> 
> As always, if I've made any mistakes, please let me know!

They rose before the sun that morning, Julio stretching and yawning as he tumbled out of bed, and Coco rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she began to straighten the sheets and pillows. The night before, they’d gone to sleep at the usual hour after supper with the family and then tucking little Elena into bed. But with the chores of the day ahead, it had been necessary to wake earlier than they usually did, and they both fought off the desire to stay curled up beneath the blankets until sunrise.

It was the second Thursday of the month, which meant Julio was going to make yet another trip with Felipe and Oscar to the market in the neighboring town for supplies. A shipment of leather would be waiting for them, nails and fresh blades needed to be bought, and Rosita had also requested a stack of red and orange fabric from a shop run by one of her many friends. Julio and the brothers would have to leave early to purchase all their materials if they were to return in time to help close up the shop.

As he pulled his clothes from the drawer and glanced at his hair in the mirror, Julio could smell the unmistakable scent of Rosita’s famous huevos rancheros drifting in from the nearby kitchen. Mamá Imelda was most likely already seated at the kitchen table, sipping hot coffee and going over the day’s orders, a plate of sliced fruit sitting nearby.

Coco, Julio knew, would be the next to enter the kitchen to help Rosita and make plates for Elena, her uncles, and Julio, all before the others ever walked in. And she wouldn’t enjoy her own breakfast until the men had left for their quick trip. After that, Julio wouldn’t see her until late at night.

With a frown, Julio buttoned the last button of his shirt and peeked at his wife. Coco was standing by the window, already dressed, looking out the open curtains as she braided her loose hair. Her fingers weaved her dark hair as easily as tying a knot, and as soon as she tied off one braid with an orange ribbon, she began on the second, still staring out the window.

Her gaze was soft, as if she were lost in some far memory, and as Julio sat to pull his boots on, he wondered if she would tell him her thoughts later that night when they were once again alone. Neither of them kept anything from each other, and Julio knew that his wife’s secrets–especially her deepest, most beloved secrets–were to always be closely guarded. There were things the family didn’t need to know, didn’t need to feel the pain and shock they would cause.

But Coco had trusted him with those secrets. Old memories, old desires, secret hopes. The dance she had shared with him that night in the plaza, the songs she asked him to hum to her when they were alone. The dancing shoes she kept wrapped in soft cloth, hidden in their drawers, nestled next to an old, worn journal that kept pictures and words that were dear to her heart.

Julio folded his sleeves up and again watched his wife’s face. By now the sun had begun to shine just above the swell of the far off hills, and light came in through the window. Coco was tightening the orange bow of the second braid, with sunlight on her hair and in her brown eyes and the curve of her sweet smile.

“It’s going to be quiet in the shop,” she said lightly as Julio walked up to her. “I’m going to miss my Tios’ jokes.”

Absently, she tilted her face for the usual morning kiss on the cheek before Julio headed out. Usually, Julio gave her the kiss without a second thought, but today his eyes were drawn to her lips.

“The days you are gone always seem longer,” she said, her eyes turning to him in a silent question.

Feeling helpless and unable to resist, Julio lifted one hand to brush her cheek and leaned in to kiss her lips, softly. A nervous jolt went through him–breaking routine wasn’t something he usually did. But rather than act in confusion, Coco rested her hands on his shoulders, leaning into the kiss, until they parted with mirroring smiles.

“I’ll make sure we hurry back,” he said, suddenly feeling clumsy with the radiance of his wife smiling cheerfully up at him.

With a chuckle, Coco cupped his cheek. “Make sure you do. Elena will not go to bed unless she knows her Papá has had his supper. You know she needs to see you eat. And I,” she added, lifting on her tiptoes for another, light kiss. “Will count the minutes until you return, mi amor.”

Julio had felt his blush rise the moment their lips touched, and now he was certain his face was as red as the little embroidered flowers on Coco’s blouse. He knew he was right when Coco laughed, patted his cheek, and wrapped her arms around him, warm as a ray of sunlight, and full of all the cheer that had drawn Julio to her all those years ago.


	4. Imector Domesticity Meme, Prompts 19 & 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the domesticity meme:  
> 19\. Date night in  
> 23\. Going through old boxes

Imelda had opened the first box when she head the beat of a song playing somewhere in the house. The song was too low for her to catch the words, but it was something familiar. 

An hour ago, she’d shut herself in her bedroom, opened the closet doors, and dug through a pile of boxes in the dark corner beneath old quilts and a coat she never wore. Each box had been taped shut, and with a box cutter she sliced through all the tape and searched in each box for something she hadn’t held in decades.

When she’d first come to the Land of the Dead, she’d repaired a celebrity’s favorite pair of heels, and the woman had been so grateful that she’d given Imelda a dress that would have been worth more than all of her property in the Land of the Living. Horrified at the low neckline and the split that ran up the deep red skirt to the slender waist, but unable to return it to the movie star, she’d rolled it up and hidden it in a box where it would never see the light of day.

“You wear it when the love of your life takes you dancing,” the star had told her, a suggestive light in her eyes, and if Imelda had been a living woman, she would have flushed all the way to her ears. Nevermind that she would never let the love her of life touch her ever again, the very thought of pulling such an elegant, revealing dress was ridiculous.

But now, a year into her new life with Héctor after all their reconciling had passed and the wounds were no longer so fresh, the thought of her husband seeing her in the dress was… was….

Well. Imelda clutched the dress to her ribs and stared at herself in the vanity mirror.

She couldn’t back out now. She didn’t _want_ to back out. She felt nervous enough to be almost sick, but the very fact that she was nervous made her so angry that she was glaring at her own reflection.

What did she have to be nervous about? Even if she didn’t have the shapely thighs she’d had as a young living woman, and even if she was just bones now, she knew she would look beautiful.

She wanted Héctor to see her.

With a nod, she steeled herself, and began to pull the dress on.

Also in the box was a pair of dark heels she’d designed years ago on a whim and had regretted, but were now perfect for the occasion.

As she pulled the shoes on, she thought about the other things she’d found in the boxes while she’d searched for her scandalous dress. There had been the photo album she’d died holding, which had held the very photo she’d ripped to keep Héctor’s face from ever being remembered. Angry notes she’d written to Héctor but had never sent. More photos of the family, shoe designs, old receipts and maps of the Land of the Dead she no longer needed. Odds and ends she couldn’t throw away.

A hair clip that young Elena had given to her before she’d died, with a red paper flower glued to it.

Standing before her vanity, Imelda ran her fingers through her loose hair. The most prominent streak of white fell over her eye. One day, in bed with Héctor, her husband had traced it with his fingers and kissed her cheekbone and told her she had starlight in her hair.

She pinned the flower over the white hair, frowned, took the flower off, and tried to wrap her hair into a bun instead. She narrowed her eyes, let her hair fall to her shoulders again, and considered just pulling it into her usual, daily style.

She could still hear music playing, muffled by the closed door, slow and sweet and Imelda knew Héctor had chosen certain songs to play on their new cathedral radio for the night. With the rest of the family out, leaving the two of them alone, they’d taken the chance to go out for dinner and then return home and, if the dress achieved its purpose, Héctor would be dying to peel it off her before the night was over.

At the moment, he was downstairs, again messing around with the radio while he waited for her. She heard the distant music change to something with a quick beat, before switching back to a slow song, and then back to something fast, before switching back again.

She rolled her eyes, smiling, as she pinned on her earrings. Maybe she’d pick a different hair style with them on.

She shook her hair out, rolled it into a bun that sat high on her head, let it down and parted it far to the side, shook it out again and was so frustrated by now that she was seriously considering changing her dress to something more simple to match her usual hairstyle because the dress really was ridiculous, wasn’t it, for someone like her? She never wore such clothes. She probably looked silly anyway.

Huffing, she let her hair fall to her shoulders one last time before moving to the closet to change her dress. To think, she’d been about to walk out into public in it! What would they say about her if they saw her like that? What would–

Suddenly, the door opened, and Héctor walked in.

“You’re going to laugh at me, amor, but I can’t figure out how to–” His words cut off when he looked up from the loose tie in his hands, and his eyes widened when he saw her.

She was standing in the open closet, in the process of pulling off one sleeve, when she froze the moment he walked in.

His hair was slicked back, and his dark vest was pressed and lint-free, and his eyes were so brown in the light from the lamp and the colors on his skull were bright and lively. For a moment, a brief moment, she imagined him as the young living man he’d once been, slim and tall and gangly but always handsome in her eyes, dressed in clothes they’d never been able to afford when they’d been a young couple. The wave a grief she always felt when she remembered him alive overcame her, but was swept away when he smiled and opened his mouth without saying a word, speechless.

“Imelda,” he finally said. “You’re– _Imelda–_ ”

“And you’re Héctor,” she said, smiling at his laugh. Phantom heart pounding, she pulled the sleeve back on, and walked up to him to adjust the collar of his vest. “Where’s your jacket?”

“Downstairs,” he said. Now that the door was open, Imelda could hear the music more clearly now, an instrumental song that she was not familiar with, but felt was perfect to dance to. She hoped the restaurant they went to played good dancing music, too.

She felt his hands touch her shoulders as she picked at his vest, and she smoothed her hands down the vest as she said, “Bueno, go and get it, while I finish my hair.”

“What’s to finish?” Héctor asked, incredulous, as he ran one hand through it. It was always comforting when he did that, and Imelda let her eyes flutter shut as he repeated the gesture. “It looks beautiful like this.”

“Does it?”

“Always,” he said. “You’re always beautiful, Imelda.”

She’d missed this. His voice so full of love and so eager, the comfort of his arms around her, his warmth. Suddenly she wanted him all for herself for the entire night. Why did they need to be out where people would follow them with whispers and rumors and questions? The music had switched to something she’d never heard, a woman’s voice singing slow, “ _nuestras almas se acercaron tanto así,_ ” and it was perfect.

She placed her hands on his shoulders, and as if reading her mind, he held her waist and they began to sway.

“Que guapo eres, querido,” she said, and reached up to kiss him. Even in her heels, he was taller, but he leaned down to hum and kiss the fresh lipstick on her lips.

“Muy guapo, eh?” He murmured against her, and even with her eyes closed she knew he was waggling his brow at her and she chuckled.

“Always,” she said, rubbing his arm, and his hands pulled her closer as the woman’s distant voice sung, “ _pasarán más mil años, muchos mas, ya no sé si tenga amor, la enternidad_ ,” and Imelda knew there was no way they were going to make it in time for their reservation.

* * *

“This is you?”

“Si,” Imelda said. She pointed at the flowering vine that climbed the tree she stood in front of in the picture. “Coco planted that vine with Victoria and Elena.”

Héctor smiled at the black and white photo as Imelda sipped from her glass of red wine, and he snuggled closer to her where they lay in bed.

They’d lit candles and arranged them around their room, and the soft flickering lights were comforting as the husband and wife went through the photos and trinkets Imelda had found in the closet. After they’d danced and enjoyed each other, she’d ended up showing him photos of their family, of herself, of Santa Cecilia. He’d laughed and listened to her fondly as she told stories with each photo, and Imelda had wiped the rogue tears that had slipped down his cheek bones.

Now, laying in bed, with her red dress on the floor and his suit and shirt and trousers spread about the room, they were going through the last photos, and enjoying the last of the wine they’d saved for months.

Héctor set down his glass and gently traced one finger along the photo’s edge. In the photo, Imelda starred seriously at the camera, wrinkles lining her face, and the white in her hair as evident as it was now.

“I told you,” Héctor said, “Always beautiful.”

Imelda shut her eyes against hot tears. She’d told him, months ago, how she’d grown old without him, and how they’d missed so much time together, and how unfair it was that he hadn’t formed wrinkles with her. It still hurt. But he always found some way to make her feel better.

“I can’t wait to meet Elena,” he said when Imelda said nothing, and Imelda chuckled.

“She’s strong like her Mamá,” she said. “One time, when she was eight, she started arguing with this boy because….”

Héctor listened with a smile, his arm around her, until they fell asleep to the sound of music in the distance, and a hundred more photos and stories waiting to be shared.


	5. Imector Domesticity Meme, Prompts 16 & 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Domesticity Meme on Tumblr:  
> 16\. Rainy day cuddles   
> 27\. I love yous whispered in the dark

It was the sound of rain against their windows that woke Héctor up. 

He opened his eyes and peeked over the edge of the blanket he’d pulled up to his nasal bone. Across the dark bedroom, rain tapped against the glass doors that lead to the balcony, and floor of the balcony itself was already gathering small puddles. 

“Imelda,” Héctor said, voice still thick with sleep. “It’s raining.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a gentle rain at night in the Land of the Dead. Usually, storms that passed over during the night were louder and the rain was harder, especially when one spent most of their days in the shacks of Shantytown. But this late night storm was quiet, with thunder rumbling faintly off in the distance.

“Imelda,” Héctor said again, more awake now. 

When he received no answer, he turned in bed to find Imelda stretched out on her front, hugging her pillow, and snoring lightly. Her loose brown hair was in her face, and Héctor smoothed it back with his hand, chuckling.

He pulled his half of their blanket off and sat up, moving as quietly as possible off the bed and walking to the window that was nearest to him. He pulled back the curtains, made sure the wind was blowing the rain in the opposite direction, pushed the window open, and took a deep breath.

Skeletons, of course, had no means to smell anything at all. But the memory of rain and the cool, fresh scent came to him, and he swore he was breathing it in as he had done so many times when he was alive.

He breathed out in a sigh, hands on his hips, and looked out into the dark night. The lights of the city around them glowed through the rain. Héctor closed his eyes and tried to remember the sound the trees in the wind, and the chirping birds that often took shelter in the tree by their home when it rained in the Land of the Living. 

There had been so many rainy days playing with Coco inside the house, sharing warm tea with Imelda, and sitting in comfortable silence while they watched the rain.

“Héctor?” Imelda’s sleepy voice called, and she walked up behind him with the blanket pulled over her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“It’s raining!” Héctor said. “Can you smell it?”

Imelda hummed and moved closer to him, until he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I can.”

“We should make some tea,” Héctor said suddenly. “In the morning. And just sit in. We can close the shop for the morning, can’t we?”

Imelda squinted up at him, probably still half asleep, and sighed at his big, hopeful eyes. “We can’t close it, but I’m sure Julio and Victoria won’t mind opening by themselves. Wednesdays aren’t usually busy, anyway.”

“Muchas gracias, amor, I’ll make sure you won’t regret it,” Héctor said, waggling his bony brow at her suggestively and kissing her cheek bone.

Imelda tsked and rolled her eyes, but let him pepper kisses along the bone of her face. “Will you come back to bed now? It’ll still be raining until tomorrow night, probably. You know how long these storms last.”

“Si, si, lo siento, Imelda,” Héctor said, and let her pull him into the cushiony mattress.

“Don’t apologize,” Imelda said, pulling the blanket over both of them before curling into Héctor’s arms. She nestled in until they were snuggled as close as possible and breathed softly as sleep began to take her again. “It brings back good memories, querido.”

Reminded of a time when they’d been young, snickering and kissing and cuddling under their blankets while they listened to a thunderstorm in the comfort of their very own home for the first time, Héctor pressed a kiss to her forehead and ran his fingers through her hair.

“It does,” he said, unsure if she had fallen asleep yet. He shut his eyes. “Te amo, Imelda.”

Warm under the blanket and with the love of his life in his arms, Héctor was on the edge of sleep himself when he heard Imelda mumble, “Te amo, Héctor.”

He smiled and listened to the rain outside their home, until he slept, and dreamed of days long passed.


	6. Domesticity prompt 10: the in-laws come to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Domesticity meme on Tumblr.  
> Prompt 10: the in-laws come to visit.  
> If there are any mistakes, please let me know!

Héctor swept a hand through his hair, patted it down, then ruffled it just a little because it looked too neat. He adjusted the collar of his pressed white button down, straightened his dark blue vest, and then quickly patted his trousers down to get rid of any rogue dust particles. He sniffed, nodded his head at his reflection in the hallway mirror, and struck a pose that obviously read “good-and-respectful-and-neat-and-totally-responsible-son-in-law.”

He held the pose for a moment before letting his shoulders sag and running a hand down his face.

If he still had skin, he’d be sweating enough to fill the lake around the city. And then some.

He felt awful. The upcoming social event of the day had dipped him in a cocktail of emotions, and he’d been trying to cope for an entire week after Imelda had broken the news to him. Laying in bed, twiddling his thumbs, staring at the ceiling and pretending to be asleep whenever Imelda checked in on him with a worried frown. He and his wife weren’t sleeping in the same room–it was far too early for that, the pain was still too raw–but the relationship between them had advanced enough that Imelda didn’t hide her concern for his emotional well being.

Ever since she’d told him who was coming to visit, she’d looked at his worried face and touched his hand reassuringly and told him comfortingly, “It’s going to be ok, Héctor.”

He loved Imelda. He did. And sometimes he believed her. But then he’d think about the day ahead and he’d become nervous all over again.

The in-laws were coming.

As if the absence of nervous sweating had called forth alternative methods of showcasing his anxiety, he had to struggle to keep himself from fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt and biting at the tips of his phalanges like the nervous wreck that he was.

Before he’d died, and before he’d left Santa Cecilia with Ernesto, Imelda’s parents had adored him. Before that, they’d tolerated him. Before that, they’d hated his guts.

Initially, they hadn’t been happy with their daughter’s choice of husband. Some skinny, lanky orphan from the streets of Santa Cecilia with too much hair and too big ears and who was just too tall and who could play the guitar wasn’t the man they’d had in mind for their only daughter. Héctor even remembered on the first day he’d met them, Imelda’s mother, Francisca, had turned to her husband and whispered behind her hand that Héctor was too _cheerful._

Imelda’s father, Javier, had sat glaring at Héctor through the entire meeting, arms crossed, and hadn’t said a word.

It had taken Héctor… well, quite a while to get them to warm up to him.

He’d shown them that he could be responsible, that he could support their daughter and protect his family through turbulent times, and that he loved Imelda with all of his being. And even though Imelda’s mother had criticized his cheerfulness at their first meeting, she’d ended up beaming at him every time he greeted her during their later days. He’d made her laugh and whispered _chisme_ with her and danced with her when music played while Imelda chuckled and rolled her eyes.

He’d even gotten Javier to smile once or twice, and made him laugh one night, and that was an achievement not a lot of people could claim.

“You’re like a son to them,” Imelda had told him one day after her parents had taken the train home. She’d been pregnant at the time, and Héctor had already been so content and full of love that the thought of someone seeing him as a son had brought tears to his eyes.

He’d learned a lot from her parents. He’d grown close to them.

And then, with one train ticket and a farewell to his family and hometown, he’d ruined it all.

He’d run into them, once, after he’d passed away. Imelda's parents died only days apart from each other, and rarely traveled alone in the Land of the Dead. It was a meeting that Héctor did not like to remember. It had been the first time he’d had hints of what his living family thought of him, and why he couldn’t cross the bridge to see them. He’d wallowed around the city for days after that, remembering the words Javier had said in such a cold voice, and the intensity with which Francisca had ignored him and simply refused to acknowledge his presence.

Somehow, remembering that he’d once been almost a son to them had made it all worse.

Héctor shook the thought from his mind. He ran a hand through his hair again and picked absently at his shirt collar. Now was not the time to think back on that. It made his nerves worse and he was afraid if he sank further into his ever present anxiety he’d make a fool of himself in front of the people whose opinion mattered so much to him, and who probably still thought so little of the man who had left their daughter and granddaughter.

But two weeks ago, only days after that one whirlwind of a Día de los Muertos, Imelda had met with them. She’d traveled to their apartment across the city, where they lived with others who had lived during their era, and spent hours speaking with them.

When she returned, she’d sat by Héctor’s bed where he lay recovering from his brush with the Final Death.

“They want to see you,” she’d said. “Mamá wanted to come today, but I told them no. You need to recover before you can see anyone.” She’d paused, then met Héctor’s eyes with worry. “I should have spoke to you first, Héctor, but—”

“No,” Héctor had said, taking her hand in his weak grasp and smiling. “ _No te preocupes._ You’re right. I can’t talk to them like this. How will I make your mamá laugh when I can barely stand?”

Two weeks since then, and Imelda hadn’t been able to delay the meeting any longer.

Héctor was still weak. His knees still buckled, he still had to sit after minutes of standing to rest, but he couldn’t bare to stay stuck in a bed while his in-laws stood around him and glared.

He wanted to be at least standing, in clean clothes, when they gave him the talking-to of the century again.

He’d washed and ironed the suit that his family had given him the night before, and spent an hour dressing himself to near perfection before the arranged meeting. Well, he _thought_ it was near perfection. He hoped. Maybe?

He looked in the mirror again and patted his hair down and practiced his smile.

Even his smile was nervous.

“Héctor,” Imelda said, suddenly behind him. He jumped in surprise and she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, sharing a smile with his reflection. “You look fine.”

“Do I?” Héctor patted his hair again. In another time he might have said _Muy guapo, eh?_ But his mouth was dry which was weird because he was a skeleton and didn’t have saliva anyway, and all he was able to continue with was, “Are you—”

“I wouldn't lie,” Imelda said. With her hands on his shoulders, she turned him around and played with the collar of his vest. She looked him over, smiled and said with a playful glint in her eye, “ _Muy guapo,_ Héctor.”

He hadn’t seen her look at him with that hint of mischief in ages. He grinned, suddenly feeling refreshed, and opened his mouth to respond in kind.

In the distance, there was the sound of the front door opening, and voices filled the apartment.

“ _Dios mío,_ ” he said faintly, shrinking in on himself as if he could disappear into his shirt and hide for the rest of the year.

Imelda cupped his face with her hands and said, “Héctor. I told you, you will be fine. Believe me, _por favor_ , they want to see you. Be strong, _querido.”_

At her words, Héctor’s phantom heart fluttered, and he straightened up. He gave her a shaky smile as she took his hand, and together they walked around the corner into the sitting room.

He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Felipe and Oscar looked up to grin at them, and standing between them, their parents landed their gazes on Héctor like hawks spotting a horror struck field mouse.

The twins had traveled to their parents’ apartment to bring them over, giving Imelda time to brew some hot tea and make light sandwiches. The drinks and little perfectly made snacks were laid out on the table, not unlike the first time they’d all met. And also not unlike that first meeting, Héctor felt faint.

Javier’s mustache was the same dark, carefully groomed mustache he’d sported until his dying day, and his three piece suit made Héctor’s look as raggedy as an old wash cloth. Standing arm in arm with him, Francisca was as elegant as ever in her dark velvet dress, the stiff collar reaching up under her chin and the hem of the skirt reaching the floor.

“Mamá, Papá,” Imelda said, stepping in front of Héctor to greet them. Standing nervously behind her, Héctor couldn’t help but feel she was acting like a shield between them, despite her reassuring words from before.

She exchanged two kisses with her mamá, and reached up to press one kiss to her papá’s cheekbone. Javier’s gaze softened when he looked down at her, but hardened immediately when he looked again at Héctor.

Héctor tried to remember when he’d shared shots of tequila with the man, laughing at some forgotten joke, and gulped.

“ _Buenas tardes,_ ” Héctor said, and stopped himself because was it ok that he’d spoken first? Should he have waited for them to speak? What if—

“Héctor,” Francisca said suddenly, her stern voice cutting across Héctor’s thoughts like a hot knife through butter.

She released Javier’s arm and moved forward, past her daughter and sons. Imelda watched with barely hidden nervous anticipation, while her brothers were a hair breath away from falling apart with anxiety.

Héctor was faring no better. In another age, he would have grinned and immediately started chatting with her, taking her arm and leading her to a comfortable chair. But now he was barely able to smile as she neared him, her dark brown eyes reminding him painfully of Imelda’s, and waited while she paused to tilt her head back and stare straight into his eyes.

She reached up, adjusted his collar which had somehow folded the wrong way in the few seconds since he’d last checked it, and said, “It has been a long time.”

“ _Si,_ ” Héctor said. He swore he could feel a heart somewhere in his ribcage beating fast. “How have you—”

“You’ve suffered for your sins,” she said suddenly, and Héctor felt an odd swoop in his chest. He looked down, suddenly feeling very small, and tried to think of what to say with everyone watching him.

But she didn’t allow him to speak. She continued.

“No more suffering,” she said. Her hands went to his face, shaking his head minutely as she said with warmth in her voice, “Welcome home, _mijo._ ”

She pulled him down to kiss his cheekbones, and patted his face affectionately before releasing him and stepping back.

Still reeling from the unexpected affection, speechless, Héctor only had a moment before Javier moved forward to grab one hand in a firm handshake.

“It’s good to see you again, Héctor,” Javier said, surprising Héctor again with more affection than Javier was capable of showing anyone other than his children, and then used the handshake to pull Héctor into a quick hug.

They patted each other on the back, Héctor still speechless, before Javier gave him one more pat and stepped back.

Héctor remained where he was, his legs feeling like jelly, as Imelda quickly moved to stand next to him and take his arm in hers. She smiled up at him, patting his hand, as Francisca and Javier moved together to sit on the nearest couch.

“Imelda tells us you met your great-great-grandson,” Francisca said, sitting elegantly next to her husband and immediately reaching to pour herself a cup of tea. “How is he? Does he play music as well as you did?”

“Of course,” Héctor said, feeling as if he was leaving a stupor, and let Imelda lead him to sit across from her parents. Felipe and Oscar, who had exchanged exuberant glances, sat on the two chairs that had been brought in.

“He’s a very good musician,” Héctor continued, sitting and sharing a smile with Imelda, who squeezed his hand comfortingly before handing a plate of sandwiches to her father. “He’s better than me!”

Francisca exclaimed words of disbelief, and before Héctor knew it, they were all chatting on the various talents of their descendants, Javier adding his curt opinions every so often, while Imelda and Héctor snuck secret smiles at each other over their cups of tea.

Without realizing it, all of Héctor’s anxiety had melted away, and he almost fell into the illusion of past memories, sitting with his family, warm and content


	7. Imector Domesticity Meme, Prompt 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving more oneshots on over from Tumblr (not gonna lie, I had forgotten I'd written this one.)
> 
> For the prompt "Celebrating an anniversary."
> 
> Not much celebrating actually, mostly Imelda and Héctor just talking. Super short and super sweet??

“I can’t believe I almost forgot you snore.”

Imelda glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I snore? Mentiroso.”

Héctor scooted closer to her and nestled his head on her pillow. “You do. It’s not bad, it’s cute. It like a tiny horn blowing in my ear every night.”

With a grumble, Imelda shifted around under the blanket until she was laying on her side facing him, and jabbed a finger at his sternum.

“YOU snore. It’s like sleeping next to train. And,” she added, “What ear? You don’t have any.”

“My imaginary, memory ear,” Héctor said dismissively, waving his hand vaguely around his skull where an ear should be. “The point is, you snore just like you did when we were young.”

Imelda _tsked._ “I do not.”

“You do! I remember the first night after our wedding, I was _just_ about to fall asleep when you woke me up with a this little _honk_ and it was the most adorable thing–”

Imelda poked one finger against the underside of Héctor’s lower rib and he cut off with a tiny yelp.

“Cállate ya!” She said around a laugh as Héctor threw an arm around her waist to snuggle ever closer. “You do a lot of talking for someone whose memory is fuzzy.”

Héctor frowned. “Is it?”

“Si,” Imelda said. She traced one finger down his rib and along it’s edge, smirking at his slight shiver, and said with a sly undertone, “Do you really remember getting any sleep that night?”

“Actually,” Héctor said, “We did get a little, very early in the morning. And then afterwards you woke me up and asked me to–”

Imelda tapped her finger over his lips and narrowed her eyes. “ _Ah-ah,_ we do not speak of that.”

“What? Why not? It was very–”

“If you want to do it again,” she said loudly to drown out his words, “Then we do not speak of it.”

Héctor shut his jaw with a _click._

“Hmph, that’s what I thought,” Imelda said. She ran a hand through his hair, smiling at his contented sigh, and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek bone.

“Happy anniversary,” she murmured, just as the clock across the room struck midnight.

They had both stayed up to watch the time tick down until it was officially the anniversary of their wedding, too anxious to sleep, and too giddy to do much else than chat in bed.

It had been decades since their marriage, and they’d spent more years alone than they’d ever had together. 

The weeks leading up to their anniversary had been tense, up until they’d sat down to talk over the upcoming date. They’d both been adamant that their wedding anniversary would not be a day spent in remorse and pain. They’d agreed that there would be no mention of the anniversaries they’d missed–anniversaries that Imelda had either spent in angry tears or had resolutely ignored the entire day, and anniversaries that Héctor had spent desperately trying to remember every single detail of the day he’d first called her his wife.

This time, they promised each other, they were going to _enjoy_ the day.

“Happy anniversary, amor,” Héctor said. He leaned in to nuzzle her collar bone as she continued to run her fingers lazily through his hair, humming lightly in the dark of their bedroom, and then looked up to waggle his brow at her. “Do we get to recreate our wedding night now?”

“No,” Imelda said curtly, unswayed by his pout. “Right now, we get sleep, Héctor. We already stayed up till midnight, and we have too much planned for the day to stay up all night.”

“At your command, mi capitán,” Héctor said, and after a beat of silence, added hopefully, “Will you let me do that thing again tonight?”

“Quizá,” Imelda said lightly. “Sleep, Héctor.”

As she arranged herself snuggly in his arms, Héctor silently went over the day’s schedule in his mind–breakfast in bed, gift exchange, etc.–until he heard a soft, familiar honk in his ear, and he shut his eyes, whispering _te amo_ against Imelda’s cheek.


	8. Domesticity 18: A new mattress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to tell ya, it's just fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving another prompt fill on over from Tumblr, with a few teeny edits. 
> 
> Feel like I should warn you about the fluff content, but if you've read this far and haven't realized almost every fill is pure mindless sappy fluff, then I don't know what to say, really.
> 
> If there are any mistakes, please let me know!

Imelda had just finished arranging the pillows when Héctor pulled back the tucked in quilt and threw himself into the brand new, cushiony mattress.

“Ah, _gracias a Dios,_ we’re finally finished,” he groaned, and with one arm over his eyes, he fumbled around with his free hand to grab the quilt and pull it over his legs, as if ready to fall asleep. He had one leg hanging lazily over the edge, his lax toes just visible from under the quilt, and Imelda took the opportunity to reach down and run one fingertip ruthlessly up the length of his foot.

Even though they were skeletons, Imelda knew Héctor was still as ticklish as he had been in life. Sure enough, her husband yelped and yanked his foot under the safety of the quilt.

“ _Ay Héctor, qué te pasa?_ ” Imelda said when Héctor still refused to leave the bed. She braced her hands on her hips and glared at him. Héctor, meanwhile, watched her from the refuge of the small hill of embroidered pillows she had just finished fluffing and arranging _neatly._ “We spent all afternoon bringing that mattress up here and making it nice, and you lie down on it!”

“But that’s what it’s for!” Héctor said. “And who’s going to see it but us, anyway?” When Imelda just crossed her arms and raised an eye ridge at him, Héctor tugged the quilt off him and said, “Look at it this way, amor, you can finally have your way with me.”

He folded one arm behind his head and stretched out, wagging his brow at her, and was undaunted by her long suffering sigh because he could see a smile tugging at her lips.

“There’s no time for any of _that_ ,” she said.

“Ah, ok, ok. But just lie down for a bit,” he said, scooting over to give her room. “You worked hard today. You haven’t had a moment off your feet.”

Imelda narrowed her eyes. Their day had indeed been rough. After a minor celebrity had given a five star review to a pair of shoes Imelda had made for her, orders had poured in from all over the Land of the Dead, and the entire family had kept busy. Immediately after closing up, Imelda and Héctor had arrived home to find their new mattress being delivered. Felipe had helped Héctor get rid of the old one and bring the new one up the stairs, and Rosita had helped Imelda get the sheets and pillows cleaned and ready for the new bed.

Now, watching Héctor splayed out on the bed, completely relaxed and patting the mattress invitingly, Imelda supposed it wouldn’t hurt to test the new mattress out.

She tugged her shoes off and laid down, stretching out next to Héctor, and immediately felt relief. The mattress cushioned her bones but didn’t sag, and was soft enough that her spine relaxed into a natural curve. Her feet were aching as she arranged her self by her husband.

“Comfortable?” Héctor asked, pulling the quilt over both of them. The quilt had been washed and dried, and Imelda could smell the fresh fragrance of the soap still clinging to the pale blue cotton. Héctor was warm next to her, and despite herself, she relaxed into his arms.

“ _Si_ ,” she said. Héctor rested his hand against her shoulder, fingers stroking gently, and she sighed. “But only for a little while, Héctor. Rosita is making tres leches y café.”

“ _Está bien,_ ” Héctor said. Imelda could hear sleep in his voice. “Just for a moment.”

Imelda pressed her cheek against his arm. She began to trace his ribs through the fabric of his shirt, and he chuckled.

“I thought we didn’t have time for that?”

“We don’t,” Imelda said. She poked him under one rib, felt him shiver, and moved in closer to his warmth. 

“This is a good mattress,” she heard Héctor say. She hummed sleepily. The mattress was soft, Héctor was warm, and the day had been long. She could feel herself falling asleep. 

She’d wake herself up of course, but it wouldn’t hurt to just close her eyes for a moment or two. Juuuuust a wink of sleep wouldn’t hurt at all….

When Rosita peeked into the open door an hour later, she chuckled quietly at the snoring skeletons curled under the quilt, shut off the light, and closed the door. She’d save two slices of cake for them, because she couldn’t possibly wake them up when they looked so adorably comfortable.


	9. Héctor and Ceci, "A rose? Why?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole Tumblr thing going on scared me juuuust a bit so I'm moving _everything_ over from Tumblr to, well, here. Even short little snippets like this.
> 
> Anon requested writing prompt #9: "A rose? Why?" I edited it and added to it a bit, so it's not an exact copy of the Tumblr post.
> 
> As always, if there are any mistakes, let me know.

“ _Una rosa? Por qué?_ ”

“What do you mean why?” Héctor gestured helplessly at the cuts of fabric on the table. Before sitting down to beg for his friend's help, he'd laid out an array of fabric across the table as Ceci watched with her arms crossed and one brow arched. He'd picked them out himself from the _mercado_ in the arts district, and if you asked him, he'd done a very good job with the colors: the squares of soft fabric ranged from light lilac and a deep plum color to pale pinks and rich shades of blue. In the center of the mess of fabric squares was a red ribbon he hoped to tie around the entire bouquet, if Ceci would only _help him_ instead of chasing him out of her studio. “It’s romantic! And this stuff is such a nice color Ceci, don’t you think it would make beautiful roses?”

“What I mean,” Ceci said, rubbing at her brow and continuing in a tight voice. “Is that I am a _seamstress,_ Héctor. _Why_ are you asking me to show you how to make a rose for your wife, when we could make her a dress?”

Héctor grinned. “You’d make another dress for me? Even after all the ones I lost?”

“ _Estás loco! No!_ ” Ceci said. “I would _help you_ make one! After everything you’ve done, you owe me hours of worth of sewing anyway!”

“I know, I know!” Héctor said quickly, “And I’ll help you when I can, _lo prometo!_ But right now I really need your help to make Imelda a nice bouquet of roses--"

" _Un ramo?_ " Ceci planted her fists on her hips and Héctor winced because he knew what was coming. "You said _one rose--_ "

"I did _not_ say one rose," Héctor said. "I said a _few_ , Ceci, _por favor?_ Imelda's very picky about her dresses, but I know what color roses she likes. And I’m going to need, eh," he paused and winced at Ceci's narrowing eyes. "Forty?”

Héctor had steeled himself as soon as he spoke, fully aware that forty fabric roses of varying colors could possibly take more time than Ceci had to spare. Sure enough, Ceci’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath to fuel the oncoming string of furious exclamations. But before she could unleash the infamous fury, Héctor waved a hand insistently. 

“Ceci! _Mira, mira,_ ” he held up a square of the deepest shade of purple he'd ever seen and picked up a needle, and smiled hopefully at his scowling seamstress friend. “Just show me how to make the first one, and I’ll do the rest myself. And I promise I won’t bother you again for, maybe, a week?”

One fist clenched on the table, Ceci narrowed her eyes at Héctor for a few terrifying seconds. Héctor had a healthy fear of his friend's fury, but he knew she had a soft spot for him. 

"If anyone can help me," he said, while Ceci continued to stare him down. "It's you, Ceci." 

A moment of heavy silence passed before, sure enough, she huffed, rolled her eyes, sat on her stool, and pulled a handful of blue fabric and a pair of sharpened scissors towards her at the same time. 

“I’ll help you make half a dozen, _only,_ ” she said, and began to cut long strips out of one square. She snipped quickly and efficiently, and without looking at Héctor said, " _Andale,_ pick up some scissors."

"Ay Ceci," Héctor said, relief flooding him as he reached for a pair of scissors and a piece of purple fabric. "You're the best, you know that? What would I do without you?"

" _No lo sé,_ " Ceci said. "I don't want to think about it. All I know is that after you make the rest of the flowers, you better clean up the mess."

" _Claro!_ "

" _And,_ you're not going to leave me alone for a week. You're going to help me finish that order of chaquetas tomorrow evening, and that's it, we're even."

"And you never want to see me again after that, eh?" Héctor asked, setting aside the cut fabric as Ceci huffed and gave him that special glare that was a mix between fond annoyance and exasperation. 

"Ay, don't be ridiculous," she said. "I'm going to need to see you again when you help me with that new order of dresses--and you _will, entiendes?_ You're my best model. Now, be quiet and keep working, we don't have all day. Fold the strip like this-- _mira, así--_ "

Héctor copied her movements as closely as possible, comfortable in the knowledge that Imelda would be impressed by the bouquet of forty fabric roses made with the help of the best seamstress in the Land of the Dead.

(When he told Ceci as much, she ended up helping him make a whole two dozen before the night was over, hands moving faster than Héctor could ever hope to match, enjoying the evening more than she would ever admit. _Ever._ )


End file.
